


information is revealed on a need-to-know basis

by lotts (LottieAnna)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Diary/Journal, Fluff and Crack, M/M, perhaps a plot someday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-05 09:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15860502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LottieAnna/pseuds/lotts
Summary: Reviews:"Tyson Barrie, sipping La Croix on a warm day, spilling his inner most thoughts on life, love, and Gabe's beautiful unicorn mane." -ao3 user failurebydesign





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU FOUND THIS THROUGH GOOGLING, KNOW ANYONE MENTIONED IN THIS STORY PERSONALLY, OR ARE MENTIONED YOURSELF: please, please click away. This is a work of fiction and nothing written in this story is true. Any accurate information used in this story is publicly available information about public figures, the rest is made up, 100%. Please keep this work confined to fan spaces and away from the eyes of the people mentioned herein!
> 
> the title is from the lyrics to "dear dumb diary," a movie i have seen FAR too many times. please don't take this super seriously, and don't expect too much in terms of consistent updates or a plot, i really am just here for goofs. i wrote the first part of this like a year ago and i think posted it to tumblr, so if it looks familiar, that's why.

Dear Diary, 

So, okay, I’m only doing this because Nate’s started making me pay him five dollars every time I complain about Gabe, and so my only options were to pay Nate, pay an actual therapist, or buy this diary, and this was the cheapest option. 

I guess I could stop complaining about Gabe, but–alright, like, come on. It’s  _ Gabe.  _  I don’t know how everyone else  _ doesn’t  _ complain about him all the time. Have you seen his hair? I guess you haven’t, because you’re a diary, but it’s  _ ridiculous.  _ When I first saw it, I thought, “That is a gorgeous, flaxen mane.” I didn’t even know what the word flaxen meant, it just, like, appeared in my head, by some weird Gabe Landeskog hair magic, or whatever. It’s so shiny and smooth, and it ruins every day of my life. We are all so, so lucky that hockey is a sport with helmets, because I probably couldn’t play if I had to look at that bullshit every time i was on the ice. And then I’d probably crash into things, and I wouldn’t be wearing a helmet, and that would be one giant mess. 

And we’re still on the hair, people. This is only about the  _ hair.  _

So, yeah, Nate’s heard all this, and he thinks I talk about it an unhealthy amount, so that’s why I have you. Nate thinks this is a great idea. I’m a little skeptical, but I probably shouldn’t tell you that, because it’s, like, rude, or something. 

Can you be rude to a diary? 

I guess you can’t really tell me. You’d think I’d be good at one-sided conversations at this point in my life, considering… well. My entire life. 

Whatever. 

Peace out, diary pal. 


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Diary, 

Nate thinks it’s dumb that I wrote ‘Dear Diary,’ but Nate can go fuck himself, because if I’m gonna do this whole ‘having a diary’ thing, I’m gonna do it right. 

Sorry it’s been a while since I actually wrote in you, though. That’s not really cool. 

In my defense, writing down feelings is weird, and kind of annoying. Not that any of that is your fault— you’re a great diary. I even got a super nice pen that makes this really satisfying sound when I write with it, and feels really nice, too. 

The problem is, I sort of spent the last week looking up how to do this diary thing right, and these days, everyone makes their diaries look pretty. Like, do you know what BuJo is? It’s short for bullet journaling, and I’ve gotta be honest, I still don’t have any clue what it is, but everyone who does it has the same really pretty handwriting and glues in all these fancy calendars and shit. 

There are so many videos about bullet journaling on YouTube, dude. Can I call my diary ‘dude’? Nate just told me I could, so we’re going with that. He’s sort of making sure I write this. 

Nate is a great friend. He is the best person in the universe. I love Nate. All hail the Dawg. 

Nate wrote that last line. 

Anyway, back to the BuJo videos: THERE ARE A BILLION. I THINK I HAVE WATCHED THEM ALL. Journaling is so much pressure, man! Like, I thought it would just be about sitting down and writing, but it turns out, people don’t just get marble notebooks from CVS and write in them anymore! I thought I was underequipped, and I was all set to go get some hella supplies from Target, but I ran into Gabe there and he ruined my life, and my new fancy bullet journal-ready notebook wasn’t ready, so naturally, all I could do was call Nate, but then he got mad at me and told me to write down my feelings. 

I wasn’t trying to cheat on you, Diary, I swear! I just wasn’t sure I was doing the whole notebook thing right, and then my mom kept sending me Pinterest links, and everything spiraled from there, but now I’m back and I think I’ve accepted that my diary will never be suitable for human consumption. 

It’s okay, though. I like this messy diary. I remember the ads for the ones that had, like, locks and shit, but I feel like that’s a little excessive. Plus, a voice-activated lock diary would just end up with my teammates perfecting their impersonations of me. I like you, boring marble notebook Diary. You’re unassuming, just a nice source of paper. 

Nate tells me I’m getting distracted. It’s amazing how he’ll sit here and read my feelings over my shoulder but he won’t LISTEN OVER THE PHONE 

Okay. Gabe feelings writing time. Landesnerd-o’-clock. 

The problem is, he was wearing a  _ quarter-zip fleece,  _ okay? Like, we get it, you look like a dad. Why do his hands look like they should be cradling an infant!!! Why does he have that aura about him!!! Forget big dick energy, Gabe has big dad energy, except for how he’s terrible with kids, but whatever, it’s fine. He’ll be the pretty one in family photos. I’ll be the one making our kids laugh because I’m hilarious. 

Nate will not be in our family photos. He’d ruin the aesthetic. 

Nate got mad at me and left. We actually made up before he left. I promised that if me and Gabe ever get married and have a giant family with tons of babies, we’re naming at least one daughter or a golden retriever after him. 

I can’t believe he made me picture Gabe with a golden retriever in  _ public.  _ I’m suing. 

Oh, yeah, so, I’m still in Target right now. Technically, I’m in the Starbucks in Target, and I know for a fact that Gabe is gone because I stood among the extremely reduced items near the register and balked as he strode out of the store trying to stop myself from asking if he’d potentially be interested in raising a family of four with me. 

Other than that, my life is going fine. 

Fuck bullet journals. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Diary, 

AMAZING NEWS: I got to chill with some bunnies today. 

There’s no Gabe Landeskog-related punchline to this, or anything. I mean, sure, the idea of his awful beautiful self holding a bunny is probably lethal, but whatever, that didn’t even ruin the moment for me, because bunnies are fucking  _ awesome.  _ They’re so fucking soft, and they hop and shit, and the best part is that they’re secretly the most angry little fuckers in the universe. 

A fun fact is that I used to hate bunnies, back when I used to grow plants, because bunnies love destruction, especially when it comes to gardens. There was a time when every last bunny was considered a personal enemy of mine, and I honestly think that was a really reasonable life choice, but I got over it when I realized that I’m just generally kind of shit at gardening anyway. 

Seriously, everyone thinks bunnies are adorable, but they’re just evil, and I  _ love  _ them, I love them with my whole heart. They hate being cute and soft and one of them actually tried to bite me today. I was sort of honored. Game recognize game. 

Anyway, nothing else to report, just figured I’d write about not Gabe, for once. Y’know. To prove I have other shit going on in my life. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Diary, 

I ran into Gabe at Trader Joe’s just now. Nowhere is safe. 


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Diary, 

Okay, so, I really expected the Trader Joe’s thing to be a one-off, except Gabe saw me buying a bunch of frozen meals and decided to make it a running joke that I don’t know how to cook. 

Listen, Diary, I don’t claim to be particularly competent, or talented, or skilled, or capable in many areas, but when it comes to food, I have my shit together, okay? I can  _ cook.  _ Not in the bullshit  _ Ratatouille _ ‘anyone can cook!’ way. Like, I can actually cook. Real meals. Cakes, even. I’m a huge hit at bake sales— honestly, Gabe should raise a family with me just so I can take over the PTA at our kids’ school. I’d be a sick president/dictator/whatever. 

Actually, no, I don’t even want to raise a whole-ass family with Gabe, because I’m mad at him for starting rumors that I can’t cook, because I CAN. 

I’m just a man who knows his own limitations, alright! I can’t cook every goddamn meal in my life, and sometimes The Good Trader knows best! Yes, I’m a gifted amateur chef, but sometimes you just wanna put a good frozen meal in the microwave, throw it in a thermos, and call it meal prep. If this is a crime, then not one person among us is totally innocent. 

So here’s my dilemma, Diary: I might’ve accidentally challenged Gabe to a one-on-one cookoff at my apartment, and now I can’t go two minutes without picturing him licking frosting off a spoon in slow-motion. 

I don’t even know if it’s better or worse than it would be if I wasn’t ACTIVELY FURIOUS AT HIM. 

Oh, well, at least he won’t be cooking shirtless, because it’s unsanitary and unsafe. Small blessings. 


	6. Chapter 6

Dear Diary, 

Nate found out about the cook-off, and won’t stop giving me shit for it, which is very inconsiderate of him. These things never happened before he put a ceiling on the number of hours per week I can spend talking about Gabe. If anything, this is his fault, and he is an adult who needs to face the consequences of his actions. 

Not that it’s your fault that I do the things I do, and not that you’re less helpful than Nate is when it comes to Gabe stuff. On average, I’d say you’re actually more helpful, because you don’t plant ideas like “Please go propose to Gabe Landeskog right now” in my head ironically, knowing full well that my brain interprets irony in a very weird, no-but-actually way when it comes to Gabe. Like, you can’t stop me from challenging him to a cook-off, but at least you don’t make me do anything worse than what I already make myself do. 

Also, I do accept that the main reason this cook-off is happening is me, but still— objectively, Nate can’t get critical about how I handle my Gabe problem when he’s made it abundantly clear that he wants no part in helping me with said Gabe problem. 

But he’s all like, “Tyson, you do realize that you pretty much asked Gabe out, right?” And that’s just— 

No, I did  _ not  _ ask Gabe out, I  _ challenged him  _ to a  _ cook-off.  _ A cook-off and a date are two entirely different entities! I can handle a cook-off with Gabe. The idea of me challenging Gabe to a cook-off and Gabe accepting said challenge is something feasible in this reality where I am me and Gabe is Gabe. However, I very much could not handle a d*te with him, and the very idea of me asking him out and him saying yes is absurd. 

Anyway, dates aren’t competitive, so, there. 

...Well. Dates that aren’t mini-golf or bowling aren’t competitive. 

And if I were to go on a competitive date with Gabe, I would totally lose, right? He’d play dirty, use his hair as a distraction, and then I’d end up out for three games with a broken finger because someone allowed me and Gabe Landeskog to coexist in the same place as tiny projectiles and windmills, or very heavy balls designed to undermine the structural integrity of pins. 

This is why I shouldn’t date Gabe, or leave the house. 

It’s also maybe a solid argument against me inviting Gabe into my kitchen, because, y’know. Fire, knives, etc. 

Fuck it. I’ll be fine. I won’t die, and finally all the hours I’ve spent watching  _ Cutthroat Kitchen  _ will be good for something: defeating Gabe Landeskog. 


End file.
